Ka Tet of the Rose
by Shane C
Summary: While Roland and his tet fight to gain the Tower, others must do his work in the Keystone world. Strangers come together to protect the rose for long enough to allow Roland to reach his Tower.
1. Prologue

_Prologue_

Aaron Deepneau stumbled out of the funeral home, mostly blind with tears. He couldn't take it, couldn't take good old John lying in that fucking pinebox, made up to look like he could pop out and say, "Just kiddin'!" A never ending stream of people wanted to take their turn at the lectern and talk about what a good guy John Cullum had been. '_Bullshit now and ever was,_' thought Deepneau as he lurched on through the parking lot, looking for his black town car. '_None of those assholes in there even _knew _John._'

The story was that John had been the victim of a mugging-gone-bad in, where else, New York City. The Tet Corporation had made a lot of friends, business and otherwise – those were the people who filled the funeral home with the stink of exaggerated grief. They had made a lot of enemies, too. John wasn't killed by a street hood looking for twenty bucks to score his next rock. His murder was the work of agents of the Crimson King. Probably that group of dickheads whom Sombra had hired about a year ago; they called themselves Conductors, but what they really were was a bunch of low-belly bastards who did not believe in looking their target in the eye. No honor, just like Sombra. Just like North Central. Just like the Crimson King himself, who was so insane that he would murder all the worlds that were just to see what would happen.

A steady hand grabbed Aaron's wasting upper arm. "This way, sir," said the kindly voice of Deepneau's driver, Carlton. He led Deepneau to the car, opened the back door, and assisted him in collapsing into the back seat. Once he'd taken his place behind the wheel, he lifted his cap and scratched his head – he seemed to be considering what to say. "I'll only say it once, Aaron – I'm sorry about John." The words were rushed, perfunctory. Deepneau sense d this was less about Carlton's discomfort and more about his awareness of Deepneau's own. Carlton had the sort of indifferent affection toward his boss most servants possess. "Where to?" he asked Deepneau, his required condolence given.

Even though it was hours past closing time and Deepneau had had no intention of going there, he instinctively said, "Headquarters." Carlton's head half-turned, as if to question the order…then he gave the slightest of shrugs and pulled the long car out into the Avenues.

Deepneau thought of his next move while Carlton fought traffic to get downtown. His orders were clear, those given by Roland long ago but also just yesterday. It didn't matter that they had come to Deepneau secondhand from a John Cullum he didn't even know when the orders were given; it was the sense of John's decency and seriousness that first convinced Deepneau to listen. Then, as the words themselves left John's lips, Deepneau had felt a deep sense of _rightness _about them. The "Three Old Farts of the Apocalypse" – John, Aaron, and Old Mose, Moses Carver – had discussed the finer points of their mission hundreds of times, and it all came down to the same thing every time. '_Make the Tet Corporation the biggest and the best. The more powerful we are, the less danger the rose is in._' Secondly, but no less important, there was their competition. '_Every chance we get, we have to fuck up Sombra and North Central Positronics' business interests. They would hurt or kill the rose (and therefore all the worlds) while we of the Tet stand to protect it._'

Sombra was the face of the force they were facing. North Central Positronics was a mysterious, shady company who never did business without Sombra's name bigger and bolder on the paperwork, but Deepneau had a feeling that they were two in the same. Not just related, not just different soldiers of the same outfit, but the _same._

And so it was Sombra that Deepneau wanted to hurt very, very badly.

Carlton swung the town car into a space in front of Number 2 Hammarskjold Plaza with practiced ease. Deepneau didn't wait for Carlton to open his door; the singing had already started and Deepneau wanted to get to it. Perhaps, subconsciously, that was why he'd ordered his driver to bring him here. Maybe in his secret heart he'd hoped the rose would be able to soothe the sadness and impotent fury that flowed through him like hot water.

As he passed into the lobby of the building and saw the rose, a smile touched his lips. It was involuntary, like a person closing their eyes against a dust cloud. Normally, the rose sang. To Deepneau, the wordless sound was all the motivation he needed to do his best to exceed Roland's every expectation. This time was different, though; for the first time, there were words mingled into the song.

"_Everything is tightening,_" the rose sang. "_The Crimson King is escalating his war. You must, too._"

"How?" Deepneau whispered.

"_Just as Roland drew his three gunslingers, so must you. Easy, it will be easy,_" the rose promised, and Deepneau had no choice but to believe. "_The Crimson King will send harriers against you. Your gunslingers will stop them. Your task is far from finished, Aaron; you must continue on._"

Deepneau tore himself away from the rose and mounted one of the stainless-steel elevators at the end of the lobby. He inserted his special key and selected the 99th floor, and the elevator began to rise with a slight hum. As it took him further from the lobby, the rose's song, while still heard, weakened.

As the good vibes lessened in his mind, he began to question. '_How the hell am I supposed to draw gunslingers? Roland and his friend said themselves that they were the last._' The rose, though distant, seemed to smirk sympathetically at him. "_The last of _his _world. In this Keystone world, in this Keystone time, all the necessities are possible._"

Aaron had the random thought that had crossed his on-top mind more than once over the years; '_I am a gunslinger, am I not?_'

"_Not,_" the rose said peacefully, as if there were nothing wrong with the fact that Deepneau's deepest, most secret desire was nothing but a man's wildest dream. "_You are a force of the White and the Eld, to be sure. But slinging lead is not to be your destiny. You know what to do._"

The elevator opened, and the two men in the lobby nodded respectfully to Deepneau as he passed them. As soon as Deepneau wondered about the gunslinger status of _those _two, the rose spoke again. "_They are hard boys, Aaron, and they can be trusted. Valuable. But gunslingers they are not._" As he entered his new office, he saw the message machine on his desk was blinking rapidly – odd. Normally, the receptionist took all of his messages by hand; most callers never even got through to Deepneau's personal phone. Frowning, he pressed the button.

Deepneau had to listen to the message three times before he got all of it. He didn't know it because they didn't exist in his when, yet, but the caller sounded like someone on a cell phone inside of an elevator. The distortion made it impossible to identify the caller by their voice, and the message-leaver never gave his name.

"Mr. Deepneau, I am a friend of the Tet Corporation. I hear you have need of my services; I run what you might call a…talent agency. Call between the hours of two and four PM tomorrow to set up an appointment." A phone number was read and repeated twice. "I believe we stand to have a long and fruitful relationship." The voice hesitated, and then changed slightly; Aaron thought it could be attributed to the voice switching from natural dialogue to reading off of a cue card. "Long days and pleasant nights, sai." Then the line went dead.

Deepneau knew instantly where he'd heard the strange bidding of farewell before; Roland's young friend had said it to them right after Cal had signed over the vacant lot to them. It was enough to incline Deepneau to believe that whoever had left the message truly did have the Tet Corporations best interest at heart.

'_What if it's a trick?_' Deepneau thought. '_What if Sombra is trying to make it a twofer? What if both John _and_ I had targets on our backs?_'

"_You certainly are a target,_" the rose agreed sweetly. "_More people are looking to kill you at this very moment than anyone else in this world. Fear not; just as you have much evil on your backtrail, you have much good looking over you. Do your job; the rest is ka._" This last sentence, though spoken by the rose, was almost in Roland's voice. Deepneau leaned back in his desk chair, looked around guiltily as if someone would be hiding in his potted plant, and pulled a package of tobacco out of his drawer. After lighting his pipe and taking the shallowest of drags, he coughed and closed his eyes. It wouldn't help the cancer, but that shit was going to eat him up one way or another. Besides, the slight tobacco buzz always helped him think.

'_Do I mention this to Mose? Or is this duty mine alone?_' he thought at the rose. Though it still sang, it must have been through speaking; no words bloomed in Deepneau's head, no sense of direction presented itself. '_You've already got your direction. Now you just gotta start walking._' Deepneau put his pipe away, scribbled the phone number onto a sheet of paper that went into his pocket, and left feeling both troubled and relieved.


	2. Chapter I: Part One

**Chapter I:**

**Jack Hamilton's Talent Agency**

ONE

The strange man in gray waded through the sea of humanity on Bourbon Street, homing in on one of the smaller bars on the fringe of what the locals called "Homo Village." It was the least stable hour of the New Orleans night, just after three-thirty in the morning. It was the hour where, if you were going to be pulled into a side street or alley to be mugged, it would happen. It was the hour a nonsense fight could easily break out for nothing more than an accidental, too-long look at someone. The man in the all-gray suit and black tie, looking remarkably out of place with his expensive loafers and fifteen-thousand dollar Rolex, was unbothered by such things as he confidently strode toward his destination.

No one disturbed him. There was an air about him that screamed, "Don't fuck with me, don't you dare!" despite the slight smile he wore. The locals and tourists alike made way for him without even realizing they were doing it. He made it to his destination without being hassled, which was a miracle unto itself. This was _N'awlins, _Jack – the home of, "Hey mister, for a buck my rat'll read your palm!" and "Got a lady-friend? Five carnations, she like _dat_, two dollah and a quartah."

The man checked a slip of paper in his silk-lined pocket, then the sign above the wood-frame bar that proclaimed it to be "Gallo's Cards and Spirits." The man, who had experience with both cards _and _spirits (though neither of the kind this bar represented) laughed a little and entered the establishment.

The interior was even more poorly lit than the open-air street. There were a few sad-looking people, obviously locals, propping up a few barstools in front of the chipped mahogany of the bar. Toward the back, the man could see a few poker games going on through the smoky haze. He shook his head, unconvinced…but if Hamilton had said this was where he was to find the gun-bunny, this was where he would find the gun-bunny.

'_Only this one isn't a gun-bunny,_' he reminded himself as he took a seat at the bar, as far away from the drunks as he could get. '_This one is trig and dangerous, even though he doesn't know it. This one might be a gunslinger. Be careful with him. Play it just right._' That was what Hamilton had said to his number one Collector, Benny, before he'd left for this assignment. '_All the other ones you've collected over the years mean nothing if you fail to bring this one along._'

Benny had been collecting for years, and had never failed to acquire one of his targets. Some were willing enough, but some needed to be convinced. Those were the ones Benny lived for, and Hamilton had promised this was going to be one of them. '_He won't want to go. I foresee trouble with this one, Ben, so be on your game._'

In the interest of being on his game, Benny studied the young man he was in the Big Easy to collect. He didn't look like anything special, but Benny supposed they never did. He was just a wiry kid, really, didn't look a day over the drinking age. The sleeves of his white button-down shirt were rolled up to his biceps, and he was elbow-deep in a sink full of the highball glasses he was washing. Without any indication he'd seen or heard the new arrival, the barkeep called in Benny's direction. "Tell me what it is you need, pal, and I'll pour it for ya."

Benny did not think an establishment like this would carry his usual brand of single-malt, so he asked for a Crown Royal, neat. The kid quickly toweled off his arms and dexterously poured a generous helping of the whiskey into a clean glass. Benny halfway expected him to slide it down the bar to him, but the kid walked it over and set it down gently on a square of napkin. "Took you for a Chivas guy when you walked in, to be honest."

Benny, who was usually – scratch that, _always _– the one to pass out the surprises, was stunned. How had the kid done that? Had he picked the brand of liquor out of his mind, like some of the other collectables had been reported to be able to do? As if answering his question, the kid grinned ruefully. "Didn't mean to offend ya, but you got the look. I'm no psychic – any good barman can take a decent shot at a man's regular drink just by lookin' at his shoes."

Benny sipped the whiskey. "Still, it's a good trick," he told the young bartender. "Want to see a trick of my own?"

The kid shrugged and nodded indulgently with a glance around the room that seemed to say, "Why not? Not like I'm busy." Benny closed his eyes and recalled the details that had been given to him about this particular target. "Your name is Tom. Tom Bailey. You're going on twenty-three years old. No family. You've been at this crummy bar for four years."

Tom grinned easily. "That's all shit you can learn for five bucks from any one of these clowns," he gestured to his patrons again. "Not impressed, sir, not at all." He said this with a good-natured bump-of-a-punch on Benny's arm.

'_He's personable,_' Benny thought, and not just in the way most barkeepers were. '_This is the kind of guy who can convince you to do damn near anything._'

Benny leaned forward conspiratorially, and Tom instinctively leaned in a bit, himself. "Sure, sure. That knowledge is open to anybody with five dollars in their pocket, like you said. But what about the fact that you're dying to get out of here? Do these daily drunks know that you go home after your shift and _pray _for something to happen, something to change? Do they know that you're not where you're supposed to be, or even _when _you're supposed to be? Because _you _know it; you know it very well, Tom."

Tom wasn't smiling anymore. "Mister, you're creeping me out. And I don't mind saying so. Let's just drop this line of conversation now, before I get really uncomfortable."

Benny shook his head. "Normally, I'd do just that. I'd wait around a while and let what I've said stew in your mind. Eventually, _you _would come back to _me _to find out what's going on, because what I just said is true. We both know it. Unfortunately, I don't have time for that, this time." Tom actually made to turn away from him, but Benny gently caught his sleeve. "I'm not just some crackpot, Tom. And I'm not here to make you uncomfortable. I'm here to offer you a job. I'm here to give you _your _job, the one you were born to do, not this nonsense you're wasting your life with."

Tom turned abruptly back to face Benny. His blue eyes were blazing. "Fuck off. Get out of my bar." But the demand was breathless, and robbed of all authority. Benny waved the comment away and continued.

"Don't be stupid. I'm not going anywhere, not without you." Benny's dark brown eyes bored into the sapphires of Tom's own. "Tell me you don't feel it. Tell me you don't know, and I mean _know_, deep down, you're meant for something else. Tell me that with a straight face, and I'm gone, and you'll never see me again." Benny waited for three seconds of silence. "See that? You can't do it."

Tom, confused but determined, said, "Say you're right, and say I _don't _think you're just the world's biggest fuckin' whack job. It don't mattah. I got my job to think 'bout – I worked ha-ad fo' it an' I ain't gon' up an' leave it."

He was regressing into the slang/slur of South Louisiana natives, the one that was barely recognizable as English to outsiders. "Cut that swamp-talk shit out, Tom, cut it out right now." Tom looked like he'd been slapped, but nodded. "What do you make, maybe twenty grand a year at this place?" Benny was being generous; from the look of the clientele, it probably wasn't that much.

"Something like that," Tom said, and Benny could see that even though he was out of his element, Tom's eyes saw clearly. He was paying attention not only to what Benny was saying, but his body language. It seemed like Tom was reading the very energy coming off of Benny.

"And that's the reason you're unwilling to hear what I have to say? Twenty-thousand dollars?" Benny reached into his coat pocket and put a rubber-banded roll of hundreds into Tom's hand. "There. That's six months' salary. Now, will you wise up and listen? With your mind, and not your ears?" Tom had instinctively pocketed the money, but he seemed unwilling to let the bills go and kept his left hand in his pocket, wrapped around the wad of cash.

"This isn't right," Tom said. "Something is screwy here, and we both know it, partner. Yeah, I'll listen. But if I see this thing going sideways, or I feel a butt-fuck comin' on, I'll kill you." He said this last part so easily and naturally that for the first time, Benny _believed_. '_By God, this skinny little guy just might be. He just might be a gunslinger, just like Jack said._'

"Here's what I'm willing to do, Tom. Put in for a week off – if it's not possible and you can't do it without losing your job, then _fuck _your job. My boss will pay your rent and pay you enough to live off of until you find another one, and that's only if you decide not to take the one he's offering you. You've got a safety net, and therefore no reason to turn down the interview."

Tom's eyes never left Benny's, but he reached under the bar with his right hand and pulled out a billy club, just like the ones the cops in old movies were always twirling around. Without warning, or ever taking his eyes off of Benny, he smacked it onto the bar's already-dinged surface. A loud _clap_ that didn't sound much different from a gunshot echoed throughout the bar, and instantly the multitude was silent. Every head turned to look at Tom, who finally peeled his gaze off of Benny and toward the corner with a small table and a jukebox.

Benny followed Tom's eyes, and saw what Tom had seen, seemingly without even looking – a confrontation was brewing quietly over in the corner. A hulking beast of a man was standing with the unmistakable shape of a knife protruding from his hand. The smaller man he was threatening had his own hand in his own pocket, presumably where he had a weapon of his own concealed. Tom spoke, and his voice rang with authority and power. It did not leave any room for questions.

"God damn it, Spider. I told you – either take that shit outside, or it's _you _who _I'm _going to put out. For good." Spider didn't put his knife away fast enough, and Tom cracked the bar again. "I'm not fucking with you!" he roared, and even Benny drew back a little. Spider, though being threatened by a younger man not even half his size, pocketed the knife and apologized, sitting back down and blushing fiercely. "That goes double for you, Randolph," he pointed the stick at the other guy involved in the almost-fight. "Either the two of you have a drink on me and bury your quarrel, or get the fuck out."

"Drink," the two of them muttered at the same time, eyes on the floor. "Sorry, Tom," Spider rumbled, and he _sounded _sorry. That was the moment where Benny was sure. He was in the presence of a gunslinger.

People slowly turned away now that it was clear there wasn't going to be a dust-up, after all. Before Benny could say anything, Tom spoke in a low and urgent tone. "The ten grand isn't enough to make me leave, but there _is_ something you can give me to get my cooperation." He paused, called himself crazy under his breath, and said, "Two words, two _things_, haunt my dreams. If you say those two words, I'll believe this is all destiny or fate or whatever the hell you're implying." He folded his arms and waited.

Benny checked himself right before he smiled – too easy. Jack had told him what to say in the case that this very topic came up. "Blood. Blood and flies."

Tom rocked as if he'd been punched. He didn't say anything; to Benny, it didn't look like he was _capable_ of saying anything. He drained his whiskey, set a twenty on the bar, and set the empty glass on top of it. "Be at the airport at nine am," he told Tom. "I'll meet you at Gate 19." Tom could only watch Benny's back helplessly as he slid through the crowd and into the night.


	3. Chapter I: Part Two

TWO

Tom sat in his own bar, having a beer and debating what to do. It was just after six in the morning; his shift had ended, but instead of going home, he dawdled, indecisive. He swigged his beer, sitting with the two very men he'd threatened with the billy club earlier. They weren't bad guys, not really; sometimes they just had to be reminded that swamp justice had no place inside the city proper. Even if Spider had gone on and stuck Randolph with his frighteningly large knife, Tom had no doubt the two of them would be laughing about it over a drink a week later. It was just the way things were settled out here.

Spider looked like he wanted to say something, but didn't quite dare. Tom had a hard reputation, and that was no easy feat among hard men like the ones who frequented Gallo's. The kid was easygoing enough, but once somebody set a match to his temper, he was quick as a cottonmouth. Just as dangerous, too. Everybody knew that.

Tom reached out and up to tousle Spider's mop of hair. "Come on, man, don't be like that. It's only my job. You know I'd never really lay you down and put you out." Spider gave him a look that said _quit bullshittin', _and Tom grinned. "Well, I _probably _wouldn't," he amended.

Since Tom seemed to have forgiven him for the earlier incident, Spider grew the balls to ask his question. "What did that _homme riche _want witchoo?"

Tom had no doubt whom Spider was talking about, but he feigned having to remember. "Oh, _that _guy…just some dude with money, slummin' it, I guess."

Spider took a thoughtful sip of his own drink. "He scared me," he said simply and matter-of-factly.

Spider was a tough customer; Tom had never seen him back down from anyone, save himself. "Did he really?" he asked, all of a sudden interested in another man's take on the stranger. "Could you say why?"

Spider thought about it, then shook his head. "I couldn't. It was a feeling, though. You didn't catch it, Randolph?"

"No, but I was payin' more attention to that chopper you was waving my way," he said, grinning so Spider would know he wouldn't hold it against him. The three of them laughed, then lapsed back into silence.

Tom fingered the big wad of money still in his pocket and made up his mind. Money wasn't his motivation, it was just the icing on the cake. He would still go if there hadn't even been the _promise_ of money. How the man knew about the pools of blood with the flies splashing in them…all those flies…

Tom polished off his mug of beer and stood. He shook hands with Spider and Randolph, clapping each on the shoulder in a friendly way. "I'm going to take a few days off," he told them, even though he had a strong feeling he wouldn't be coming back to Gallo's. Not anytime soon. "If I hear you two've been cutting up in my bar while I'm gone, we're gonna have words." The look he gave the two of them suggested there'd be a hell of a lot more than words. Their argument forgotten, the two men looked at each other. Randolph promised they'd be good, and Spider nodded in agreement. Okay, then.

He walked out onto the street. While in most places the day would just be getting started, here on Bourbon Street, it was the opposite. The street was emptying rapidly; the street-sweeper truck was just turning onto the main thoroughfare, pushing all the trash up onto the sidewalks. The prisoners from the county jail would be along shortly to gather it all into bags. Tom waited for the truck to pass, then stepped to the middle of the street to begin the moderate walk to the airport. The weight of the bills in his pocket caught his attention, and he laughed and put his arm out for one of the taxis just making their way onto the scene. The black guy driving one of them cut off another driver to swing in and scoop him up. "Where to, pal?"

"Airport," he said, climbing into the back. The black guy took a look at Tom's obvious work attire; he wore the cheap nylon slacks of the service industry with a worn white shirt tucked into it. Correctly assuming that Tom was one of N'awlins' working class, like himself, he said, "Rates've gone up; it's $1.25 on the drop now and thirty-five cents a mile. The airport ain't but a couple of miles; maybe you'd be better off hoofin' it, my friend."

While some people might have taken offense at the black man's assumptions, Tom was touched. Nobody gave a shit about anybody else in this city; this guy was just looking out for someone he saw as one of his own. Instinctively, Tom handed the man one of the hundred dollar bills from the roll he'd been given. "I appreciate it, man. But I won the lottery tonight, and I'm feeling, like, generous."

The middle-aged guy looked at the bill for a minute, then said reluctantly, "I'm sorry, I don't have change for this, yet. You're my first fare."

"Didn't ask for any," Tom said easily. "But I _am _in a little bit of a hurry." This last part was untrue; he still had two and a half hours until the time of the meeting set by the weird-o in the bar. But, at the same time, it _was _true. Tom didn't know the feeling he was having, but if he could have described it, he would have said that time was _tightening,_ tightening right around him like a belt being pulled too snug.

The cabbie pulled away from the curb and headed directly for the airport. "Musta been _some _lottery, if you're willing to tip a stranger ninety-six bucks for a four-dollar ride."

Tom was hardly paying attention, but he replied truthfully. "I can tell you're a good man. A hard worker. Tell me folks like us don't deserve a good turn once in a while, and I _will _break that goddam thing and take my change." The man's eyes appeared in the rearview, suddenly worried that he was being toyed with; Tom just smiled back easily. "Relax, partner. That tip's already in your pocket. What's your name?"

"Alvin," the man said amicably enough. He snapped his fingers, as if something he'd been trying to recollect suddenly came back to him. "_Now _I know where I know you from. You work at Gallo's, right?"

Tom didn't know if the guy was bullshitting him or not; after all, he wore the de facto uniform of Fringe Bourbon bartenders, and Alvin had picked him up less than a block away from Gallo's, anyhow. He had a feeling about this guy, though; just as the man from the bar had made him nervous even while telling Tom things he couldn't possibly know, he was getting a good, positive vibration from Alvin. He had the eyes of an honest man, and that was nearly impossible to fake.

"Gallo's, yep, that's me," Tom said distractedly; as they pushed deeper into the city, a feeling that something was wrong was flooding through him. It was irrational, but it was _strong_. He watched as a man walked out of a store and stood in the doorway, watching the taxi pass by…and he _was _watching them. The guy was dressed in a Dick Tracy-style trenchcoat, despite the fact that it was already eighty-five degrees outside, and as the cab passed and Tom made eye contact, he swore he saw a red flash in the guy's eyes.

"Ah, fuck," Alvin swore, and Tom saw why; something was congesting the traffic directly ahead. "I hope you're not in _too _big a hurry, pal; there's not a side street I can take around this."

Again, the irrational feeling that a noose was slowly tightening around Tom's neck struck him, and the thought wouldn't leave. He was positive that if he turned around, trenchcoat-guy would be walking his way. He did, and he was. He was walking toward the stopped cab in a very deliberate way. Tom had always trusted his intuition before, and it had never steered him wrong. "I'll get out here. Thanks." Without stopping to consider Alvin's surprised look, he opened the door to get out. That was when all hell broke loose.

He saw in slow-motion as the man with the trenchcoat and the red eyes reached into his coat. Before he removed it, Tom thought, '_Gun, he's got a gun!_' He slammed the cab door and said, "Gun it, go, get us the fuck out of here!"

Alvin barely had enough time to say, "Go _where?_" before Tom saw the guy behind them level an absolutely massive semi-automatic at the taxi. "Down!" Tom barked at Alvin, taking his own advice and hitting the floor of the cab. Crashes that seemed to silence the busy street rang out behind them, and glass shattered and rained down on Tom. Distractedly, Tom heard people screaming and the sharp patter of running feet, but they were all drowned out by the rhythmic, methodical gunfire.

Alvin had just enough time to say, "Jesusmaryandjoseph," before gunfire started coming from in front of the vehicle, as well. The second slug that ripped through the front of the taxi caught Alvin in the head. It snapped back, as if he were about to laugh at something extremely funny, but there was nothing funny about the way the hot blood and bone splattered all over the back of the cab and onto Tom. "Fuck!" he snarled, not knowing what was going on, but the gunfire had started, and something had changed inside of him.

He saw clearly the ratty nine millimeter pistol under the late Alvin's driver's seat; Tom's hand shot out and grabbed it. He didn't bother to check if it was loaded; he could tell from the weight of it that it was. He'd never held a gun before, so he had no idea how he knew that, but he _knew_. Bullets continued to tear through the car, but things had changed; now _he_ was armed. He knew instinctively to wait until the gun of the man (_not a man, he's not a man,_ Tom corrected himself randomly) behind him fell silent to make his move. It did, and in his mind's eye, Tom could see the man (not man) digging in his coat pocket for a fresh clip of ammunition. The two gunmen in front of the taxi were still firing, but that didn't matter. Tom opened the door, using it as a shield against the bullets coming from the front, and leaned out of the backseat.

He saw exactly what he'd known he would see before he even looked; the not-man was indeed reloading. Without thinking, Tom pulled the trigger three times. The first two rounds struck the not-man in his chest, and the third carved out a ditch from his eyebrows to his brain stem. He dropped to the pavement like a marionette with its strings cut.

Tom rolled out of the vehicle and scampered around back. The cars which had caused the traffic jam were long abandoned, its owners too smart to stick around when the shooting started. He peeked around the driver's side of the car, and almost took a bullet in the head for his trouble. But the split second had told him what he needed to know – the location of his two remaining assailants.

'_Kill with my heart, I kill with my heart,_' was the only thought in Tom's head. He'd never heard it before, had no idea where he'd picked it up, but he listened to it. To his left, a big steel mailbox beckoned. '_Get behind that. Go quick, before they can line you up. Shoot as you go._' Tom heeded the voice that was not his own and sprinted for the side of the street, fearless. Fear would come later. There was no place for it in a gunfight.

The not-men, both almost identical to the one Tom had already put down, shot at him, but they weren't expecting such quick movement. They were cocky, they thought they had their target right where they wanted him. As the lead flew around him, Tom almost offhandedly threw two rounds of his own; he was shocked as the off-balance, barely-aimed shots each found a home in an enemy eye socket. They fell simultaneously, and after their pistols clattered to the pavement, there was nothing but silence. That silence was shockingly loud and deafening after the forty-five seconds of chaos.

Well, not _quite _silence. About a mile away, but closing in fast, screamed the unmistakable sound of police cars responding to the scene. Just as he'd known the fight was about to happen, Tom also knew he couldn't afford to be caught. Didn't matter than he had been defending himself; the not-men would be gone before the cops arrived, and Tom would be left with a lot of explaining to do. Again, he had no idea how he knew this, but he _knew_. Tom let the gun fall from his hand and he ran away.


	4. Chapter I: Part Three

THREE

Tom was just starting to relax as he made the fourth block away from the shootout. His shaking hands were starting to still a bit, his racing heart falling back into something resembling a normal rhythm. He couldn't stop asking himself what the hell had just happened, but at the same time reassured himself he'd reacted in the right way.

As he crossed Toulouse Street, his mind wandered to Alvin, the oddly-likable cabbie. The thought almost undid all of the calming down Tom had managed over the past few blocks. It made the fact that there had just been _shooting _real. A man was murdered, and it was because he was in between the assassins and Tom. '_He was just trying to earn his living and survive the day to get home to his family,_' Tom thought bitterly, and a few tears escaped for the first time. '_Just trying to make it, and his first fare of the day got him killed. _I _got him killed._'

"Hey, you!" A gruff voice called from behind Tom. Years of hard, city living kept Tom from reacting; only people with a guilty conscious reacted to shouts like that. It didn't do him any good; he heard sharp, almost-running footsteps making their way toward him. He should have broken out into a run, but he was still under the impression that he was innocent of any crime. After all, the not-men he had shot weren't human, and they'd been trying to kill him. So how was he guilty of anything?

His weak justifications didn't do him any favors. He held on to the hope that the person hailing him would keep running past in pursuit of an imaginary suspect. He knew _he _was the suspect, but he was determined to try to play innocent.

A rough hand wrapped itself around his upper arm and another jammed hard into the small of his back, forcing his face into the dirty bricks of the building beside him. Tom instinctively yelped and tried to squirm away, but he was cuffed before he knew what was happening. Once his hands were bound, the cop spun him around to face him.

The cop searched Tom's face and nodded as if there were a signed confession taped to his forehead. "Oh, you're the one, all right. Don't bother talking – what you say will be used against you and all that shit."

"The hell are you talking about?" Tom protested, although he knew it was useless. He was just playing the part of the innocent man, now; playing a part in a play in which the audience has already left. An exercise in futility.

The hard-nosed New Orleans beat cop just sneered. "Yeah, all right. You think you can shoot up half of fuckin' Rampart Street and just stroll away like Dandy-Do-Nothin'." He depressed the button on the microphone clipped to his shoulder. "This is Henway. Send a radio car to 2212 Toulouse, I have the suspect in custody."

"I dunno who told you I was shooting, mister, but you got the wrong Johnny. Do you see a fuckin' gun? Look at my clothes, pal; I'm the barkeeper at Gallo's. I'm just tryin' to get home, so what the fuck you jamming me up for?" Tom tried one more time.

The cop cranked the chain in between the manacles of the handcuffs, twisting both of Tom's wrists cruelly. Tom bit back a cry of pain, which seemed to disappoint the cop. He patted him down while he waited for his squad car, and quickly came out with the roll of ten thousand dollars, minus the hundred he'd given Alvin. "Bartender at Gallo's?" he gloated, waving the money in front of Tom's face. "You had a hell of a night for tips." His thumb riffled the bills. "Ten grand, feels like. The standard fee for a professional hit, smells like. You're fucked, my friend. They're gonna throw the book at you, because you didn't even have the good sense to wait until rush hour was over. A cabbie ate one in the head, and a lady heading in to work caught one in the chest. Critical condition. You're fucked."

Tom was stunned into silence. He wasn't even interested in arguing anymore; the wad of money would sink him. Who would believe the real story how he'd come by that money? Nobody, that was who. Certainly not the judge.

Tom's head was down, so he didn't see the black car pull to a stop beside him. He didn't see the window roll down. He didn't see the silencer sticking off of the end of the pistol like some tumor. But he heard the sharp, high-pitched tweet, and he watched as the cop holding him prisoner dropped to the pavement, brains leaking out of his exploded skull.

Tom stood there, his mouth a frozen _O _of shock. How was this madness not over yet? And it was just getting worse.

"Stand there like a horse's ass and wait for his backup to get here or get in the fucking car. It's nothing to me. But if you're going to get in, do it right now." The voice floating through the partly-opened window of the black sedan was, amazingly, full of dry humor. The back door of the car behind the driver swung open, revealing a slim shadow sitting on the opposite side of the back seat.

Tom's body reacted before his brain could decide what to do. He slid into the back seat, sitting on his hands, and the woman in the back seat reached across his body to pull the door closed. The man driving pulled slowly and calmly away from the scene of the cold blooded murder. Of the copicide.

The woman set something small and hard in between Tom's shoulder blades and let it fall. Tom instinctively caught it and felt the cold steel of a handcuff key. After a short moment of fiddling, he got it home and opened the cuff.

What came next was a surprise to all of them, but mostly to Tom. He swung the handcuff still dangling from his left hand in a short arc, and the metal cracked the woman sitting beside him squarely in the forehead. As the blood started, he reached with his right hand and smoothly yanked the gun holstered at the stunned woman's hip out of her possession and put it to her temple.

The guy driving never even tapped the brake. "Oh, come on. Don't overreact. We just saved your ass from life in prison – you _could _be grateful."

The woman was not as calm. "You little motherfucker," she snarled. On the _F _sound of motherfucker, blood popped off of her lips like she was an infant trying to blow spit bubbles. "What was _that _for?"

She was clearly enraged, but she didn't move a muscle. Smart. Tom still had the muzzle of the big caliber pistol jammed against her temple. "Because you assholes just murdered a cop and made my situation a hundred times worse. I'll never be able to show my face in Louisiana again."

"No, you'll never be able to show your face in _America _again," the guy corrected Tom with a laugh. "But that's okay, because you won't be seeing much more of it, anyway. "


	5. Chapter I: Part Four

FOUR

A strong, persuasive feeling of unreality washed through Tom; it was the same feeling he got when he was in the middle of a nightmare and suddenly realized he was dreaming. He even smiled a little as he waited for this dream to fade so he could wake up and sit up in bed in his small, neat apartment.

The dream didn't fade, though. The guy driving the car actually started to whistle a little – sardonically, like he was driving a patient to the loony bin. The woman he'd popped in the head with the handcuff and whose own gun he had pressed against her temple just stared at him with naked hatred and even a little embarrassment. The feeling of being in a dream went away completely when she commanded, "Pull that trigger or give me my piece back."

"Easy, Seven," the man driving warned. "Don't push him just now. Let him get his wits about him."

The woman continued to stare hatefully out of the corner of her eyes but did not say anything else. Tom realized what the driver wanted him to – that the pair in the car meant him no harm. They had rescued him, even if it was in a gruesome and unexpected way. The woman herself had given him the key to open his handcuffs…and in return, he'd busted her face for her and threatened her with her own gun.

A feeling of shame came over Tom, and he knew he'd overreacted badly. Part of it was his rough upbringing – in downtown New Orleans, getting off the first punch or the equivalent was necessary for survival. Without really making a decision, he spun the chromed pistol 180 degrees by its trigger guard, inverted the weapon, and offered her the grip. "I'm sorry."

The woman's enraged look faded into one of surprise, but she didn't stay flat footed. Within a half a second, she'd taken her gun back. The muzzle stayed pointed at Tom's ribs for a moment, her finger tight but not quite white on the trigger…but that didn't even faze Tom. He was coming out of shock and he was accepting his situation for what it was. These two did not execute a police officer to save him just to kill him. It was ridiculous.

She searched Tom's face and seemed to realize the gun wasn't scaring him. She grunted unsatisfactorily and dropped the gun into its place at her side. She pulled a white handkerchief out of a pocket and delicately dabbed the shallow gash on her forehead. "I'm sorry about that, too," Tom said softly.

"Eat shit," she said in a flat, conversational tone as Tom unlocked his other cuff.

"So touchy," the driver teased her easily. "If this kid is who Hamilton says, you're lucky that dinger's all you got out of it."

"You eat shit, too," she grunted unhappily, licking the unsoiled edge of the hanky to moisten it. She took the wet edge and cleaned up the little bit of blood which had dried around the edges.

As Tom came back around to his normal way of thinking, he automatically started taking inventory of his surroundings. He could see the back of the driver and part of his face in the rearview; he was dressed like a businessman. Dark blue suit, crisp, gray collar, neat haircut…even his eyebrows were waxed and perfect. The woman was every bit as handsome as the man, in a businesslike way; she had on either no make-up at all, or it was applied so lightly that it looked completely natural. She wore a knee-length, tan trenchcoat over her workingwoman's blouse and skirt, despite the rising heat outside. Some of her shoulder length blonde hair had fallen over her face and ears, and she tried to smooth it back.

"You still look okay to me," Tom ventured with a small smile, falling back into his old charming-bartender routine. This elicited a small, curling snarl of her upper lip that exposed her white incisors. Her right hand fell down to the butt of her recently-holstered gun.

"Easy," the man up front soothed again. "Both of you." To himself, he muttered, "Like putting two fighting dogs in the same backseat."

Tom was no longer smiling. He could see in her eyes there would be no let-bygones-be-bygones here. Tom made his living on making sure people liked him, and it was odd to him when someone didn't. She had a good reason to dislike him, but it still made him a tad depressed. "What now?" he asked blandly.

"To the airport, where you were presumably heading before the low men set on you. Well, one quick stop, then the airport." He turned to appraise Tom. "Or am I mistaken? Had you decided to pass up the meeting?"

"No. I was going," Tom said honestly. "But now that you're here, maybe you can give me more of an idea."

"An idea about what?" the man asked indulgently.

"About just what the fuck is going on. Why several people around me have died in the last hour. About why I'm not at home sleeping, resting for my next shift."

"He doesn't know," the woman said, and her voice was full of wonder. "I always wondered if they knew, even as I wondered if they existed." She studied Tom again. "I'm still not convinced he is one."

"One _what_?" Tom demanded.

The woman started to answer, but the driver cut her off. "It's not our place to say, Tom. Our job is to make sure you make your flight, not to tell you things you have to learn on your own."

"So you know my name," Tom said, not a bit surprised. "What are yours?"

"I'm Four. That's Seven," he jerked his thumb at the woman.

"Your names are numbers?" Tom said skeptically. "What are you, fuckin' robots?"

Instead of taking offense, Seven laughed. "Sometimes it feels that way. We're people, just like you. Only when we joined the Agency, we gave up our names."

"Are you telling me this is some CIA operation?"

This time, both of them laughed heartily. "CIA? Those no-talent fuckups? Not even close. We work in the…private sector," Four explained. "We're not bound by the outdated laws and rules of a government that no longer works."

"Well, what _are _you bound by?" Tom persisted.

For the first time, the two agents in the car exchanged a glance. After a moment, Four said cryptically, "We're bound by money, professional pride, and the White. Mostly money, though." He swung the car into a streetside parking space in front of a small, old store. "First stop. Let's go, Tom. Clean up that forehead, Seven." He opened the car door to the sidewalk and walked straight into the shop without checking to see if Tom was following.

Tom got out, but before he shut the door, he leaned in and gave Seven his most sincere, apologetic look. "I really am sorry about your head," he said. "I didn't…I didn't know what the hell was happening. I just reacted."

For the first time, Seven's severe expression relaxed. She even smiled a little. "Don't mention it. I guess if you hadn't done it – or something like it – then we'd be wasting our time. Don't keep him waiting," she motioned toward the shop. Tom nodded, closed the door, and entered the small store.

The smells of must, old rough pine, and incense assaulted him as soon as he opened the door; only the very oldest buildings in the city still smelled like this, the ones that had survived all of the hurricanes of the last two hundred years. Racks of secondhand clothing clogged the floor. Tom spotted the man who called himself Four chatting to an elderly black woman at the counter in the back of the store.

"There he is," Four said easily, motioning Tom to join him. "My no-good nephew. We need some decent threads for him – job interview in twenty minutes."

The woman studied Tom suspiciously before grunting. "I got new suits in his size," she finally said. "In back. Blue, brown, or black?"

"Black," Four said. "Dark shirt to go with it, if you have it." The woman grunted again before disappearing behind a curtain.

"Black? Dark shirt? Is that the uniform, or am I going Goth?" Tom asked in a low voice.

"People are 8% less likely to remember someone dressed in dark clothing during the day. Suits don't draw attention in airports. We have to step lightly, now. No more incidents."

The simple answer slowed Tom's smartassery, and his understanding of the situation doubled. '_These two aren't playing some game. They really are professionals._' The simple factoid given offhand by Four had cemented the shaky knowledge.

Tom realized that, for better or for worse, Four and Seven were in control. As he dressed in the new suit Four was paying for, he allowed himself to go on autopilot. He wondered a little about what lay ahead, but mostly, he just rested his mind. He said nothing as he got back into the black Lincoln and Four took them toward N.O. International, and that seemed to suit the two agents in the car just fine. Tom rested.

He had the feeling he'd need it.


End file.
